


You'll never know (if you don't know now)

by juxtapose



Series: Must've Done Something Right (We should get jerseys, 'cause we make a good team) [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, But mostly angst, Fluff, M/M, Steve learns how to dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:27:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juxtapose/pseuds/juxtapose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obligatory Tony-teaches-Steve-to-dance fic. Post-'The Avengers', wherein Stark Tower has become Avengers HQ and there's a whole lot of unresolved sexual tension. And angst. Lots of angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll never know (if you don't know now)

**Author's Note:**

> Remember that time where I haven't read any Avengers comics but the films give me so many feeilngs that I can't stop writing for them? Yeah. That keepse happening. I've decided to turn any Steve/Tony oneshots I write in the foreseeable future into a series, "Must've Done Something Right", all taking place post-'Avengers' unless I decide otherwise.
> 
> Anyway, this kind of thing has probably been written a thousand times over, but I hope you enjoy my spin on it nonetheless. Thanks as always to Danielle (EverdeenFrayPotter) for reading this over!
> 
> The song I used in the story and for the title of this oneshot is, indeed, real, and was one of the top songs of the 1940's according to Billboard charts. It is called "You'll Never Know", and the original version can be found [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CI_VQ55EX9U) for your listening pleasure. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing!

“Tony, I’m really not sure this is a good idea.”

Tony Stark’s mouth is curved into a mischievous smile. “Haven’t you heard, Rogers? I’m _made_ of good ideas.” He gestures to the spacious room around him, shrugging. “The newly-built Avengers HQ, for one. With glass that _tints itself_. If you’re worried about anyone seeing us--”

“--I just really don’t think--”

“I’m sorry, but is Captain America the super-soldier _scared_?”

“No!” Steve Rogers crosses his arms in front of his chest, eyebrows knit in frustration.

Tony nods slowly. “Right. Okay.” He glances around his elaborate living space before eyeing a tiny remote control on a side table. He half-jogs over to the device, snatches it up, and tosses it from hand to hand absently as he makes his way back to Steve. He watches Steve’s expression change from quiet annoyance to blatant nervousness, and with a hint of a tease in his own eyes, he leans forward and says, “Let’s dance.”

He presses a button on the remote before tossing it to the couch behind him, and soft piano music fills the room. Steve startles and looks around, Tony appraising him with slight bemusement. “Dual CD/record player with surround-sound,” he offers in explanation. Even after having made a semi-permanent home at Stark Tower for about a month now, modern technology is still a bit lost on good ol’ Cap.

“I have no idea what any of that means,” Steve grumbles, “Let’s just get this over with, okay?”

Tony smirks, stepping a bit closer. “Okay. Take my hand, like this.” He reaches up, spreading his fingers. Steve gingerly mirrors him, enclosing Tony’s fingers in his own. “Okay, good. Now put your other arm right--” He abruptly yanks Steve’s arm and clasps it to his waist. “Here. Unless you’d rather be the girl? I’m not gonna say it _doesn’t_ fit you, if we’re both being honest with ourselves--”

“Shut up, Stark.”

“Right. So, I’m a hypothetical girl at tomorrow night’s Stark Industries Annual Winter Gala, and I want to dance with you, for whatever reason--hey, don’t roll your eyes at me; I’m the one giving up my valuable time to help you here. Anyway, the thing is, _you_ have to lead.”

Steve averts his eyes. “I dunno how to lead.”

“Exactly. Which is why we’re here, up in my apartment, so you don’t make a complete idiot of yourself tomorrow, and, by extension, make an idiot of _me_.” 

Steve snorts. “Always an ulterior motive with you, isn’t there, Tony? God, I can’t believe I agreed to this.” He sighs heavily, stepping back, releasing his grip on Tony’s hand. “This is ridiculous. Just forget it. I’ll just sit at the gala tomorrow and, I don’t know. Make small talk.”

“The thought of you attempting to make small-talk with various corporate smart-asses makes me want to laugh and sob. Simultaneously.” Tony clears his throat. “Listen, it’s not like you’ll be alone; I invited you and the rest of the Super Secret Boyband. Everyone loves the Winter Gala. We all deserve a night out. So you all got invites because I’m so nice.”

“You mean because Pepper said it would be a good idea.”

“I resent that. You can’t be the only Avenger who can’t dance, Steve. That’s gotta be a violation of one of S.H.I.E.L.D’s codes or something. I mean, even Banner can, and anyone who wants to dance with him is putting her life on the line in the event she steps on him and releases a whole lotta angry Hulk. Now. Let’s try this again.” Tony holds up his hand, and after a few moments, Steve takes it, inhaling a deep breath.

“Okay, now, since you’re just learning, I’m going to lead. Watch how I move my feet, and all you have to do is do the same thing but move in _my_ direction. See how I stepped back? Now you step forw-- _ow!_ Jesus, Steve. I said step _forward_ , not _on me_.”

“Hey, I told you I was bad at this!”

Tony exhales in exasperation. “Just. Just chill out, and watch what I’m doing.”

He moves, slowly, and Steve moves with him. The combination of their almost too close proximity and the subtle softness of the music connects them in an strangely, awkwardly significant kind of way. Each move Tony makes connects itself with Steve’s, reluctantly and apprehensively at first, but slowly moving into a rhythm they both can move to. Steve’s head is craned low so he can analyze Tony’s every step, and all the while there is a silence between them only broken by the music and the shuffling of their feet.

Gradually Steve lifts his gaze to meet Tony’s, and with a nervous laugh declares, “Well. This isn’t so difficult.”

“Not exactly the jitterbug, is it?” Tony retorts.

“I’m surprised you know what that is.”

“I paid attention in history class. Once.”

Steve chuckles a little. “For the record, I was horrible at the jitterbug, too.”

“I don’t doubt it. Here, you try leading since a new song’s gonna start.”

Steve nods, clearing his throat and standing up straight with such unadulterated focus that Tony almost laughs out loud. But as the new track begins to play, wide-eyed recognition colors Steve’s features. He pauses, tilting his head a little, closing his eyes to the tune, murmuring, “I _know_ this song.”

“Yeah.” Tony nods casually. “According to my iTunes library it’s, uh, 1943, Alice Faye--”

“‘You’ll Never Know,’” Steve interrupts, his voice coated with nostalgia, “It’s called ‘You’ll Never Know.’” With that, Steve places a firm, confident arm around Tony’s waist (which surprisingly surprises the snarky genius), and leads Tony in a sway to the music:

_You’ll never know just how much I miss you_  
You’ll never know just how much I care  
And if I tried, I still couldn’t hide my love for you  
You ought to know, for haven’t I told you so  
a million or more times? 

“That’s, um.” Tony shifts his gaze to the wall behind Steve’s piercing blues. “That’s. Good. You’re getting a little less hopeless at this--”

“This song,” is Steve’s almost inaudible interjection, “You knew I’d know this song. It’s why you’re playing it.”

Tony shrugs. “You got me. Figured, y’know. It’d be easier to learn with music you’re familiar with. Also it was, uh. It was a song my dad danced to with my mom at their wedding. Apparently.”

He can see Steve’s eyes soften at this, and is compelled to meet them. “I know what it’s like. Losing your parents.” He sways from side to side, turning slightly, and Tony follows.

“Yeah, well. No worries. Pretty sure my father knew more about you, the hero he helped make, than he ever did about me--it’s fine.” He idly attempts reassurance with his words at Steve’s hurt expression. “S’just how things were. He taught me a lot without even realizing it. Anyway. My question is, how does the all-American super lab experiment go 90-ish years without learning to dance?”

“Well for one thing, I was unconscious for 70 of them,” Steve answers with a half-bitter grin, “For another, a girl promised me--back then--that she’d teach me.” A ghost of something sad dashes across his eyes. “And, well. It’s a little late for that now, don’t you think?”

_You went away and my heart went with you_  
I speak your name in my every prayer  
If there is some other way to prove that I love you  
I swear I don’t know how  
You’ll never know if you don’t know how,  
how I miss you. 

“You know what they say,” Tony’s voice cuts in over Alice Faye’s, “Never too late to try. Or something to that motivational effect.”

“They also say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” In a sudden gesture, Steve braces Tony’s back and dips him low, eyes a scorching ice azure, grinning amusedly as Tony stammers a _whoa_ in spite of himself.

“I, uh.” Tony gapes up at him, feeling his face flush a little. “I guess you can.”

They linger there for a fraction of a moment, close enough that each man’s breath is a wisp against the other’s skin, and Steve’s pupils dilate just a little and the music sounds very far away and then--

And then Steve loses his balance and sends them both crashing to the ground.

“Ow! Steve, what the _hell?!_ Didn't they program super-human _balance_ into you somewhere?!"

“Ah, dammit! Sorry, Stark, I--”

Tony’s awkwardly splayed on the floor with Steve’s arm still under him, and the usual clean-cut Cap is looking disheveled and a little disoriented, and suddenly, Tony can’t stop laughing, throwing his head back onto the hardwood floor. Steve watches in sheer bewilderment for a few seconds, but before long Tony’s laughter teases at the corners of his mouth and he’s chortling, too, falling to lie on his back next to Tony.

Tony lifts a hand to wipe at his eyes. “Your--your _face_ when you fell. Oh. Oh, man. It was priceless. I wish I’d had a camera. JARVIS, did you get that on the security camera by any chance? I want to blow it up and frame it--”

“Don’t you _dare_ , Stark.” Suddenly Steve’s on top of Tony again, pinning him to the floor. “I swear I’ll--”

“Maybe give a copy to all the Avengers. And fax it to Nick Fury--”

“Tony, cut it out!” Steve’s yell is sharp but he’s all smiles. Despite this, he finishes with, “I’m serious.”

Tony grins again. “So am I,” he says, voice low. He props himself up on his elbows, as such bringing his face close enough to Steve’s that he can see the sharpness of his features in great detail--the curve of his jaw, the sun-freckles on the bridge of his nose, the upward turn of his lashes. . . 

Steve’s inhales and exhales are rhythmic but quick--as if he’s out of breath--and Tony half-recognizes his own breathing doing the same. Suddenly Tony’s thinking of that night with Pepper, the night they danced and he left her on the roof, and how he felt this odd, misplaced adrenaline, but it’s so much _more_ than that here, now--it fills his head and his chest and his veins with a yellow-orange warmth; he doesn’t want to leave Steve Rogers on the roof, he doesn’t want to leave him anywhere--

 _Shit. What am I doing?_ Tony realizes the last time he felt like this--so out of sorts, battling with himself and feeling like he’ll never win--had been when Steve showed up at his place months ago, just as lost. The wave of confusion he’d felt then washes over him now, cold and unforgiving like the waves of a storm, and Tony thinks he’s got to do _something_ before it all goes to hell, and Steve’s face is red and hot and full, full of something he can’t place; if he could only just reach a little further and . . . and . . . 

Their noses touch. Tony watches Steve’s eyes flicker all over his face, his expression calculating, analytical, and then his heavy lids flutter shut. Tony finds himself closing his eyes too, and it seems as if the gap between them is just about to close entirely when--

“No. I-I can’t . . . I can’t do this, Stark.”

Tony’s eyes pop open and a part of him hopes this is part of a strange daydream, until Steve all but leaps off him, standing to brush off his clothes and run a hand through his hair.

He sits up, asking, “Do what?” in an affect of nonchalance, but it doesn’t sound very believable even to Tony himself as the words tumble out of his mouth in a horribly dry, cracked mumble.

“Look, I don’t know what the hell just happened, but I . . . I can’t . . . I should go. Okay?”

Tony wants to shout at Steve for being so thick. He wants to push him up against the wall and tell him he can’t leave. Most of all, he wants to punch him in the face for making him feel this inexplicable way.

The music carries on between them, and Tony’s honestly not sure if he prefers it to the heavy silence that will inevitably stand in its place once the record finishes.

_If there is some other way to prove that I love you,  
I swear I don’t know how . . . _

Steve’s walking now, brisk soldier-steps, and Tony calls after him in spite of himself: “Just--just _hang on_ a second, Rogers; I--”

“I gotta go, Tony.” Steve does not turn back to face him, but Tony hears the crack in his voice. “Just let me go.”

Tony does, watching Steve enter the elevator and turn to press the button leading to his the floor of his suite. Tony wonders absently if maybe he’ll pack his things and _go_ in every sense of the verb.

The look on Steve’s face--a complex combination of sadness and confusion--greets Tony for a small moment before the doors shut.

Tony nods a little, turns on his heel, and heads to the mini-bar to make himself a drink. Night has fallen over New York, now, and he welcomes it.

The final notes of the tune ring out, louder than ever, in the dark quiet:

_You’ll never know if you don’t know now._


End file.
